For Atlas Was Too Young
by Chopsticks89
Summary: 1964- the year that a tiny, broken, bloody boy she called Atlas was carried in the arms of his father into her white-washed and sterilized world. 1964- the year an era began with the moon. Drabble.


He's a tiny boy- can't be more than five. My breath catches in my throat when I realize what his presence in _this particular ward_ means. It means- it means that the grey pallor over his bloodied skin might be the last his poor panicked mother sees of him before a grave is all that's left. Before something so terrible that I, in all my horror at a small child's death; would rather see that tiny grave than see _that_ come to pass. It means that the moon might take him into it's terrible jaws- like some poor, tortured soul did not so long ago, and clasp him to it in silver agony for the rest of his life. His chest rises.

_No._

_Please, not this, anything but this, don't let the boy live with _this_._

His chest falls. It rises again.

I choke back a sob. _It's over_.

All his happy, carefree, five-year-old days are over. His father may lose his job from prejudice; his mother will learn far too much about the awful side of this world that she never thought could coexist with the wonderful, _glorious_ magic she's seen. No more will this tiny, now scarred, now changed boy be who he once was. No more will he be a child. That life is gone now, gone with all his future dreams and aspirations, all his friends and hopes and normal teenage problems. His life will wax and wane now, his trust in others chained up by necessity and fear of rejection. And rejection will _surely_ come. How could it not, with a world already so spilt as it is now? A world so split at the seams, with whispers in the dark of one to take one's place at the front of all the nightmares in this world; a world with remarks like 'barely human', and '-should be put down', 'and 'we don't serve _your_ kind here'. And those won't even be about him. He will be below the ones who hear that, his company will be cast aside in favour of those who are already told their very _blood_ is filth.

_Please_. I'd rather spend all night comforting his sobbing parents, and showing them the _oh-so-helpful_ fliers on children's funeral arrangements than to spend all night explaining _this_. _Anything_ but this. Anything at all.

'He will be lucky to live to adulthood'. That's what they whisper in the dark, behind their hands. _No. _no, I say. He will be lucky to never see the sun rise again. He will be lucky if the shaky rise and fall of his thin, bloodied chest is just a trick of the light. He will be lucky if he never learns what has happened, because the reason so few live long enough to reach adulthood is because of the suicides. People don't talk about them; they say it's a shame. I don't think so. I've been in here too long; I've seen too much of exactly what this does, to think that 'it's a shame'. And it's not the sentiment of hatred, like so many- '_they should just kill themselves, do the world a favour'._ No. Some, a very battle-weary few, will find peace. They will find some impossible way to Make It Better. To make it work. They will find people who will accept them anyway, who will hold them through the long mornings when everything hurts and the fear is so thick you can taste it. They will find someone to pick up all the torn and bloody pieces and fit them back together again, in a more-or-less semblance of an actual, functioning person... Those are the ones who are lucky beyond anything any amount of little golden Felix Felicis could conjure up. The rest are split. Unlucky, and the hopelessly ill-fated.

Out of these two, the unlucky will find some painless enough way to quietly slip from life, and leave their burning shackles behind. The hopelessly ill-fated will suffer through long, friendless years, in pain, in poverty, hated and utterly beyond any kindness. It is those who break my heart, in the worst kind of way.

There are, of course, the ones we Don't Speak Of. They are the ones who relish in it, who become the monster the world sees in them willingly, who are the tiny face of their tortured kin. I fear them just as much as I weep for them.

I can only hope that the fates have smiled upon this tiny boy, who is just now stirring, weak and frail and half dead. Perhaps he will find someone who can hold him through the cold hours after the dawns, who can bring him joy and laughter and happiness in his sea of dark. His father tells me he can already read- such a bright boy! His mother whispers that he loves chocolate almost as much as he loves stories- such a sweet boy!

Perhaps I am too eager to find the dark side in life. I have always been told so- but how could I not? I see this type of wonderful, perfect family suddenly turn to rot far too often. I have seen these proud, loving fathers close their hearts and minds to all love they once held. I have seen these fiercely wonderful mothers turn scornful and cold. I have seen this far too often.

Perhaps though, this tiny boy will soar. Perhaps he will fly, help up in his still-proud father's arms, carried by a still-kind mother's love. Perhaps I am wrong.

I hope beyond hope it is so. He is tiny, and too young for the weight of a world gone wrong, though he must already shoulder a part of the load.

Oh my tiny, blood-stained and broken Atlas, I hope your shoulders are strong.

xxx

**oh god. what have i done?**

**i am a sopping wet blanket of angst and should leave poor remus alone!**

**i'm sorry. i couldn't stop myself.**


End file.
